Not Idle anymore

Indian Idol has divided our two member family. I wasn't into the contest much earlier and neither was P, except when we happened to catch it ocassionally. We only started noticing it towards the end, all thanks to Prajakta Shukre and her pretty looks. P, like Sanjay Bhansali and Anu Malik, found the little girl a complete 'star.' Ahem...

Poor Prajakta didn't make it (though I'm quite certain we'll see her in playback singing and music videos soon enough) but Abhijeet Sawant and Amit Sana did.

And our household had instant division. P (like most of my friends, grrrrr...) wants Abhijeet to win. He thinks the boy is the complete package. I want Amit Sana.

And here's the reason.

Abhijeet has his smile. And pleasing looks. And Shilpa Shetty's compliment. And the entire Mumbai city. And one lakh plus employees of BMC, where his father works. Amit has nothing but his voice. And throat infection. And the people of Bhilai. And I suspect teenage Bhilai girls might just go for his opponent's smile.

All these makes Amit Sana the underdog. Why should looks count in playback singing?

No doubts about who I'm smsing for!

Thinking of:

watching Finding Neverland/Aviator/Raising Helen back to back
going berserk in a book fair
dashing off to Bombay for Mark Knopfler
getting a rich aunt
saying bye bye to the mag
shopping till my head hurts
reading more of Ruth Reichl
watching Love Actually on the DVD
cutting my hair
making chocolate strawberries and coconut paste sambhar

Valentine Boys

We spent Valentine’s Day peacefully. We don’t celebrate it, never have. The day doesn’t matter to us of course (we're too cool kya!) but we went out for dinner as I was too tired to cook and had gotten home late. We went to the food court where I turned up my nose at the sight of two scrawny youth in oiled hair walking up and down with red roses. Considering it was 9.30 pm and the roses looked pretty much wilted, it was obvious the girls around were smart enough and their efforts hadn’t paid off. I sniggered quite loudly when we passed the boys on our way out (half an hour later). My dear husband thought I was being unnecessarily mean. Apparently all boys do such soppy things (yikes) at some point or the other. I'd say it's meanos like us who show them the light.

Reading Vogue In a DTC Bus...

...is inviting unwanted attention, of course. However a 45-minute long traffic jam ridden ride in a somewhat soiled vehicle requires distraction, which is why I dug into my bag, discovered Vogue and proceeded to read about Donald Trump's third wife. I was immersed in the engrossing details of her shopping trip to Paris when some stray comments of the not-so-polite-Hindi kind made me look up. Two men standing next to me were having a good time. The back cover had a model sprawled out in a perfume ad. Fully clothed (by fashion mag standards) but with enough peeking out for the guys to lose their equilibrium. Being the easily-embarassed type, I primly rolled up the offending mag, remembered a friend's tryst with the Financial Times in Germany, though for entirely different reasons, stared out of the window at the endless traffic and tried to ignore the dust. The men didn't give up. They were now looking at my bag.
How I miss the ladies compartment of Bombay locals!

I've been thinking whether we really need movie reviews. Isn't the reviewer (and all of us are guilty of this at some time or the other) creating a bias in people's minds and in some cases, affecting the movie's chances at the box office?
We react to any creative effort, including cinema, in our unique, individual way. Which means it's quite impossible for everyone to arrive at the same conclusion about a film. I loved 'Black' and most people loved it as well but there are some for whom the movie did nothing.
I found 'Shabd' disappointing. Sid liked it. So did Anita. Most of us loved 'Bend It Like Beckham'. But there are people who quite hated it. Ditto for 'Hyderabad Blues' (Part one of course. The lesser said about part 2 the better. See there I go!).
When 'Page 3' released, the Indian Express reviewer trashed it. I'd already bought the tickets so we went ahead with the film and ended up liking it.
So do we need reviews at all? I asked a friend and she said, so that we know what to expect. Isn't a synopsis enough for that?

Still wondering about...

* JNU students: They've thrown out a Nestle coffee vending machine from the campus as it is elitist (nestle achine is definitely gourmet coffee), expensive (Rs 5 only. ouch. we'd rather go to barista) and corporate (which their phones and shoes and watches aren't of course). What'll they throw out next? Themselves?
Anyway, just in case you want to read JNU arguments against this criminal coffee, I came across studentsolidarity.blogspot.com. This time, I'd rather side with the horrid Mcmedia.

* The Battle For Pitampura: It was hysterical to see Delhi divided into two over this stinging issue. There were the Absolute Snobs who couldn't imagine going to Pitampura and driving with the metro over their heads. There were Pitampura Loyalists who looked down upon the snobs looking down upon them and said it was a great place. There were the Music Lovers who said they'd go anywhere for music, even if it's Pitampura. And now, after the concert, there are Pitampura Converts who it seems will only go there for concerts now and nowhere else. Between quotes from Rina Dhaka, Subir Malik, Palash Sen, Rohit Bal, DNA head, south delhi studs and Pitampura teenieboppers, it was hugely entertaining. Thank you guys!

1994 (As far as I remember): Bryan Adams is performing in Mumbai. Five girls an three boys at Fergusson College, Pune, are over the moon. A rock concert! In India! Wow! The last time Sting and Bruce Springsteen came to India we were kids. Now we can actually make it. So what that we have exams going on? By a stroke of luck the concert is on the last day of our exams. One of the boy's brother buys us tickets, some of us pay him. Some of us promise to next month after mummy daddy send the cheque. Boy's brother organises Maruti Van. We shall rush to Mumbai as soon as the paper's over. We buy t-shirts with Bryan Adams' mug on it and barely stay quiet in the examination hall. We are soooooo excited. A rock concert!!! We barely finish paper, get into the van and dash off. Van bangs into tractor type vehcle. Two of us are hurt. It's off to a dispensary in Satara instead.

1996: Led Zeppelin and Bryan Adams perform on stage for the Channel [v] Awards. Me (and countless other journos) get to meet the rockstars but hey, where's the excitement? Caught in the whirl of too much work and too many celebrities, I've become a snob journo. Only notice that Robert Plant looks HOT. Rockstar Hot! Bryan Adams? Yeah, there's a tiny man moving around somewhere...

Sometime around that: Michael Jackson makes it to Mumbai. Horrid RE of course send his favourite (who's friend of mine so won't bitch). Tickets almost equal my salary. I don't want to go anyway. Who wants to see a monkey on stage. That too blessed by Bal Thackeray.

2002/3: Pink Floyd plays in Bangalore. I'm all ready to go. Eventually can't because it's a new job for me and don't have leave! Brother makes it, comes back raving and says he's disappointed in me, someone who saved up pocket money and bought their albums.

2005: Sting performs in Pitampura. Don't go again. First coz nobody I know wants to go including the formerly bohemian husband who is now too busy making presentations. Even the brother is working. The rest want free tickets.

2005: Mark Knopfler is coming to India. Now this is someone I'd give arm, leg and other body parts to see. Only, he's performing in Bombay and Bangalore. Not Delhi. Will I make it to Bombay? Unlikely. We bought a house last year. We are doing it up now. We are as Washington Post says, cashtrated.

My rock star karma surely is bad.

PS: I know the post has no point. But bad karma and old age lethargy needs to be documented.

Black

It isn't just the performances, the photography and the direction that deserves praise. It's the fact that a mainstream filmmaker has the guts to show the box office the finger and make a film that is far removed from conventional Bollywood standards. For those of us who've always watched and liked Hindi movies, even when it was uncool to do so, films like Black make you confident that the film industry is coming of age. At last!
Great film. Go watch if you haven't already. And not on DVD. This is for the big screen.
On the other hand Shabd was a disappointment. Great story but weak and overstylised direction. It could have been a fantastic study of a writer's complex, distraught mind, fanatic about proving his genius to the world. All it ends up being is a confused Hindi film with bad songs.

Saturday!

After years of going to work on Sundays, holidays and other unmentionable days when friends are planning mini vacations or plotting picnics while I travel miles to sub copies on warts and pimples, I finally have the luxury of a two-day weekend. For the sake of all those unfortunate souls who do not have this privilege (Now, why do I smirk?), I have to say that it is an awesome, mind-blowing experience. To an extent.
Here’s how it’s been going so far:
I wake up on Saturday at the usual workday hour.
Realise with a bang in big, bold fonts that it’s a holiday. HOLIDAY!!!!!!
I promptly show the clock the finger, dive back inside the quilt and get back to sleep.
Pause
I try to get back to sleep. With one small hitch. Sleep has also gone back on me. I toss and turn, count sheep and try to think of nothing (which means I think of everything, including my neighbour’s acne problem). And I can't sleep.
I can’t wake up at seven either! Haven’t I endured endless Saturday mornings struggling to pull myself up from the bed while most of the world (the civilized working world at least) sleeps, especially the snoring bundle next to me? Haven’t I stifled four-lettered retorts when friends have called and announced in their just-out-of-bed voice: ‘Ohhhh myyyy Gawd...(Yawn)...You’re aaaattt work! Gosh...(Yawn)...ok dear...so I guess you're working...(yawn)...I
just woke up!’
Ugh!
So how can I wake up THAT early?
Just to punish me sleep has a way of staying away when I need it the most. Therefore, in a resigned state of mind, I get up (ignoring the snoring bundle), bring in the newspapers, make a cup of chai and put my feet up and sit.
That’s when it really hits! I DON'T HAVE TO GET READY IN HALF AN HOUR. NO WORK TODAY! YIPEEE!!!
As a former six-day-week slave, this mindblowing fact takes me the entire day to digest. During this time, the snoring bundle has woken up, had his chai, bathed, exercised, met friends, gone out for lunch, shopped for CDs and DVDs, watched a lot of television, driven around half the city and drunk himself silly.
He's always been a privileged five-day week type, they take such luxuries in their stride.
I, on the other hand, am still slouched and zombie like. There is a different one liner running in my mind: CAN'T BELIEVE TOMORROW IS A HOLIDAY TOO!!!!

There are reasons why I’ll never make too many friends in Delhi. For one I'll never figure out the ‘Haanji’ crowd. It's impossible to have a serious conversation with people who pick up the phone and go 'haanji?' Excuse me? What about 'Namaste,' 'Hello,' etc? 'Haanji' sounds like you are demanding to know why the caller had the audacity to call. Even if it was just to wish you Happy New Year (ending with ji). Whenever I call someone and get confronted with a 'haanji,' I find myself launching into a long-winded explanation on why I called and almost apologising. Really.
Then there are the ‘Pancake’ queens. Especially the crack of dawn variety. Ok honey. Nothing against looking well-groomed and pretty but do you have to wear eyeliner and gloss at seven thirty in the morning? And the reason you and I will never see I to eye is because I’ll never learn that it is bad manners to walk up to you and say 'my god you actually comb your hair this early!' when you have not only combed hair but also blow dried it, applied makeup and look ready to catwalk.
This is the other thing that instantly makes me an outsider: I’ve actually taken the Delhi metro! If you are a true blue Delhiite, you never step into a mode of transport that also carries the 'aam janta.' If it's a modern invention like the metro, you appreciate it and say how proud and how international and how like the metro in Bangkok, which naturally, you have travelled on extensively. Of course, it's not your fault that the metro’s not even in South Delhi. It’s in strange places called Shahdara and Kanhaiya Nagar. And sure, you know all about public transport — like what the inside of a DTC bus looks — but that’s only because you took the U special 15 years ago to college when dad refused to give you the car.
But what has me confused the most is the 'auto expression.' It’s a mixture of awe (?) and disbelief in the eyes of a delicately bred Delhi babe, after hearing that I have taken an auto to remote, rapist-infested areas like Mehrauli, Vasant Kunj, etc. That too in the middle of the night, i.e 8 pm. I love this one and revel in the heroine worship (Brave me! Ooh I took an auto!) but I suspect that’s not what it really means.
If you have reached here and aren't itching to break my neck, you are either not from Delhi or have nothing else to read or you're simply a saintly type of person.
Before you (the possible non-saintly Delhiite) curse me for being a determined Delhi hater (who me?), let me say this. There are loads of wonderful refreshing girls, totally comfortable with how they look. PEOPLE WHO ACTUALLY AVOID WARPAINT IN THE MORNING. And of course there are people who take the bus or the metro to work, to meet friends, to the movies. You do meet people who don’t look at you like you are from a different planet if you mention the word public transport. It’s just sad that I don’t meet too many of them.

“It’s the Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston syndrome we are going through,” my friend laughed into the phone. “He wants babies, I don’t. I almost feel like a celeb!”
I laughed along with her, at that moment it seemed the only way to handle the situation.
It goes deeper than that. My friend wants to go for further studies. Doesn’t mind having children at some point in life if she feels like but not now. Not when she is at what she feels is the most exciting time in her career. An opportunity to let go of a well paying job and spend a year or two studying overseas.
The world thinks differently. It includes her husband, also a friend of mine. They’ve been each other’s rock-like support and guide through the best and worst times of their personal and professional lives. They’ve stayed together despite seemingly obvious differences in background and mindset. Until now. To my friend’s husband, her reluctance to have a child now equals a lack of interest on her part in their relationship, in the future.
She thinks he’s being drastic. Honestly, I think so too, which is why I’m writing this. And what hurts her the most is his refusal to accept that she might genuinely want to have a child although not now, that she might really want the relationship to continue but not because of a compromise.
We talk pretty often, even though we don’t end up meeting much. I don’t know what to say, I listen, because that’s what she wants me to.
It also strikes me that this is not my only friend who’s going through a rough patch in her relationship. I look at these relationships from an outsider’s point of view and to me it looks like a jigsaw puzzle gone wrong. Perhaps all it requires is some concentrated attention, some shifting here and there, before it all fits in. But life is more complicated than that I suppose.

Why don't you get the floor polished?
Why don't you change the maid?
Why don't you have your hair coloured?
Why don't you visit us more often?
Why don't you start planning children?
Why don't you get a better job?
Why don't you drive?
Why don't you do something exciting with your life?
Why don't you learn to control your temper?
Why don't you tell me what's wrong?
Why don't you make more money?
Why don't you start saving?
Why don't you stop chewing your nails?
Why don't you learn how to tell people off?
Why don't you stop drinking?
Why don't you stop having junk food?
Why don't you stop thinking so much?
Why don't you learn to sell yourself?
Why don't you call me often?

WHY DON'T YOU LEAVE ME ALONE?

I’d forwarded the tsunamihelp website to some friends and acquaintances when one of them wrote back saying 'Have already donated 10k. But will forward this one.'

It irked me immensely. It always does, when people declare 'how much' they have done or contributed to something. It makes me feel that they are not doing this because they genuinely feel for the cause but because it is a way to make themselves feel good and make others think how noble/selfless/concerned they are.

Perhaps mine is a very cynical and myopic way of looking at it. And I could be far off the mark. But I can't help being a skeptic. Vivek Oberoi rushing off to Nagapattinam and adopting a village does impress me but I invariably wonder how much of it is work he is actually doing and how much is publicity? Yes, I know I shouldn't be doubting the guy. At least, he's there. There are so many of us just saying 'wish we could be there' and sitting stuck to our chairs instead. And stars would perhaps motivate others to join in or donate. Therefore it is a good thing that there are many coming forward both from hollywood and bollywood. But is it necessary to mention in the newspapers how much they've donated? Is the amount a reflection of their sincereity?

Perhaps I'm very conservative. I still believe that people who actually do something do not advertise it. I feel that if you can make a difference (by giving money/volunteering/whatever) make it in whatever way possible, big or small. Make it within your means and keep quiet. Unlike a lot of talk happening around. You frequently hear people saying 'I donated xx amount.' We don't need to know do we?

The Tsunami disaster is unbelieveable. There was a story in this morning's paper about an IAF officer's 13-year-old daughter who floated on a piece of wood and survived. Her parents didn't.
The most heartbreaking were the mass graves in Sri Lanka. And the photograph of a Swedish kid in Phuket holding a piece of paper that says parents and two brothers missing.
You go to a beach — whether it's in India, Sri Lanka, Maldives or Thailand — usually in the happiest frame of mind. This was no way to die.

A must visit site for info on what's happening and how you can help:

tsunamihelp.blogspot.com

My little brother has bought a car. No big deal I guess but he is four years younger than me, and I feel motherly about every development in his life. Naturally, when we went to pick up the car, I was moist-eyed and as my horrid brother remarked, a perfect replacement for Nirupa Roy in Hindi films. The real trouble started once we got the car out of the showroom. My mom called and asked me to ‘take the car to a temple.’
Since when did she become such a devoted person, I asked her.
I haven’t. It’s because this is my son’s car, she sternly replied. To reach a compromise (and avoid the temple), I dashed back to the showroom and picked up a ‘Divinity Ganesha.’ It was golden and the only semi-decent Ganesha available. Brother smirked, fumed and grumbled about superstitions, blind faith, etc. I kept a straight face. Much as I love Ganesha (ok. Let me confess it. I collect them), the Divinity one was horridly golden.
‘I’ll change it for a better one tomorrow,’ I promised him. He muttered in reply.
By now we were on our way to Gurgaon, where P was planning to celebrate with bottles of booze. It involved passing the newly constructed Dhaula Kuan flyover. I love all these new flyovers in Delhi but would someone tell them to put up CLEAR, LOUD AND PROPERLY DIRECTED SIGNS? In the grasp of my big sister act, I almost directed brother to Naraina, which is on the opposite side.
Now brother's a good driver but the moment I saw him behind the wheel I felt as if he was 14 and taking out dad’s car for the first time.
Expectedly, things went downhill from then on:
‘Now watch that turn, there’s a lot of traffic coming in from there.’
‘Thank you. I have eyes. I can see traffic.’
‘Ok. Ok. Go slow for God’s sake’
‘I am going slow. Thanks to you, I’m going slower than even that khatara van!’
‘You can’t go fast. This is the highway. There are so many accidents.’
By the time we reached the 30 km distance from the showroom to my place, brother had a strange look in his eyes. It wasn't helped by me telling him to park carefully between a Maruti 800 and a Santro.
‘Do you realise how old I am?’
‘Umm…you’re definitely younger and I’m just asking you to be careful.’
‘Do you realise that unlike you, perhaps I can drive and I don’t think it’s like climbing the Everest?”
‘Hmmm…’
‘Do you realise that thanks to you I got stuck at every signal because you asked me to drive slow, follow speed limits, mind the cops, cows, autos, everything?’
‘Oh my god! You mean to say that was slow? You mean you’ll drive faster than that?’
Naturally enough, brother’s a bit evasive whenever I ask for a ride these days.

After watching Swades on Saturday afternoon, I had a huge argument with the friends I went with. They didn’t like the film. I did. Although, I wish the film had been more gripping and less preachy. I’ll blame it on the dialogues. They sound very Doordarshan documentary type. But my friends had more to criticise about the movie than just the dialogues. They felt there was nothing new about the story and that it was pointless.
It surprised me hell of a lot. I fail to understand why they think Swades, a movie about an Indian living abroad, who's back on a journey that becomes one of self discovery and who makes a decision to stay back and contribute to his country's development, is pointless? Then Dil Chahta Hai, a film about the ups and downs over the years in three friends’ lives didn’t have much point either, did it? Or for that matter Veer Zara (which is a bad movie. I’d rather go and see DDLJ for the 25th time) and all those Karan Johar 'classics'.
Which is why Nikhat Kazmi’s review in TOI angered me. Not that I go by her review but here is someone who gives a thumbs up to Veer Zara, an ode to mustard fields and Punjabi suits and then runs down Swades. What’s new, she said. We see poverty and barefoot children in railway stations everyday, she added. Yes we do. But while most of us walk past without bothering to do anything about it, some do stop and make a difference. I have a cousin who left a highly paying job to start a school in his mother’s village. Today, thanks to that school, many girls in that village can read, write and some even work. This movie was about people like him. I just wish it had the grip and punch of a Lagaan or a Dil Chahta Hai.
Swades is worth a watch just for the subject it has tackled. Our Hindi films do not delve from tried and tested subjects. It’s up to us to appreciate the few that do.

Four and half years and at least 30 weddings later (I like the way that sounds hehe), I’m convinced the profession to be is wedding planning. Especially if you live in Delhi like I do. If you're a wedding planner, you make money, you are never short of business and you are constantly in demand. What more could a girl want?

Last Sunday was the famous 14,000 weddings day here. But I kept thinking what the fuss was all about? They had a similar day last year when there were 14000 plus weddings. And they'll have one next year. This time, the TV channels had more story ideas though. One of them, Star Plus I think, had a 15-minute ‘news’ report on the ladkiwalas and the ladkawalas. It was nothing but filmi style antakshari. I couldn’t believe my ears. This was news? And to think in my reporting days I was blasted by the RE for doing a ‘fluffy-piece’ on chairs painted by MF Husain?

Perhaps you can’t blame TV journos for going overboard when the shaadis are over the top. Nobody does them on a small scale anymore. It’s a farmhouse or nothing. Even in freezing winter, which thankfully hasn’t arrived yet. One farmhouse wedding I went to this time had waiters dressed like Arab sheikhs for some strange reason. Perhaps it was to distract the kids who kept chasing them around. The fake Sheikh sight momentarily cheered me up with the thought that perhaps the food was Arabic but no such luck. The wedding day is strictly vegetarian. This is one time I miss Bong weddings. Never mind the topor*.

But the funniest wedding I attended was last year. Again in a farmhouse closer to Jaipur than to Delhi. Again overcrowded. Again 40 different food stalls, all of which were being attacked by very fat men and women wearing all their jewellery. Again a wedding where I only saw the bride and groom on a huge TV screen they had put up at the venue. But the icing on the cake was two revolving platforms flanking the entrance. On one stood a gleaming big black car tied with a huge blue bow, a placard on it bearing the legend: ‘From Mr XYZ To His Loving New Son.’ The other platform had similar gleaming car, though not so big (for the girl, silly) and not black, tied with a pink bow and the placard: ‘From Mr XYZ To His Lovely daughter.’ I almost thought I’d entered a contest by mistake.

But why blame just Delhi?

Last year, some newspaper tycoon's daughter got married in Bhopal and they actually printed a mini-tabloid with all the wedding news!
And years ago, when I was a gawky student in Bombay, we attended a classmate's wedding. The venue was Turf Club. We were showered with petals as we walked in. Thinking we had died and gone to heaven, we looked up to find two poor souls dressed and positioned like Hindi movie apsaras (Think Raj Kapoor films) on two podiums. All set to start showering petals the moment a guest entered. Heavenly no?

*Topor=Strange conical hatlike thing worn by Bengali grooms. Must’ve been invented by some jilted woman.

such is life...

There are Four main reasons behind the zero activity on this blog the last couple of weeks:

* Tons of work. For once, gallons of it. Since I mostly paint my toenails in the office, the volume of so much real work naturally knocked me out.

* Very Slow Server. Takes an hour to open anything.

* Blog intertia. Yep. It happened. Only felt like reading blogs when had the time. Not posting anything. Even comments. Has passed. Hopefully.

* Weddings. Everyone I know hatched some conspiracy and decided to get married at the same time. Totally broke/exhausted and unsocial after buying thoughtful gifts/sitting in car for hours to reach farmhouse out of town/chatting with same relatives and friends and even eating the same kind of food. And reaching home very very late. Ugh

There's probably a fifth reason as well. It's called Laziness. :)

I’m sitting in office finishing off last minute pages, wishing colleagues hurrying off home a very happy Diwali and thinking of the different Diwalis I’ve had. Strangely, despite being a Bengali, it’s Diwali and not Durga Puja that always has me excited.
I’m not a ritual-friendly person and often get scolded at various functions by family aunties for not knowing the right way to put a tikka on someone’s forehead and 'important' stuff like that. But I’ve always loved the rituals, the activities and the sense of urgency associated with Diwali — from cleaning up the house with mom as a kid to helping her shine her much loved silverware to perfection to soaking the mitti ka diyas.
I love yellow lights — candles, diyas, even nice fairy lights which I love winding around my plants. As a kid, the highlight of my Diwali celebration was lighting up one part of the house just the way I wanted to. In fact, when we lived in Goa, I once lit up a corner with such enthusiasm that dad had to almost call the fire brigade!
My lighting up activities were perfectly alright with the bro who had a free go at the crackers, something I largely stayed away from. Still, it was fun to light up your ‘anar’ and see if the sparks went up higher than the neighbours'. By late night, mom and dad's friends would start dropping in, dad and his friends would sometimes sit down for a quick round of cards, the drinks and mithais would come out, some aunty would bring out a casserole of ‘chhole puri’ and it would suddenly be an impromptu potluck dinner.
When I lived in Bombay, I mostly went home for Diwali. When I stayed back, it was usually spent at my friends H or An’s place, in much the same way as it was at home but with the essential people missing — mom, dad and brother. Diwali is when homesickness hits me the most.
An lived close to Worli Seaface and we would drive down to watch the fireworks across the sea. One magical Diwali night was spent driving from Bandra Bandstand to Marine Drive, chasing the fireworks as we called it. It seems magical now but come to think of it, must’ve been crowded then. When I started staying in Delhi, Diwali acquired an entirely new dimension (traffic jams, a profusion of dry fruits, large scale gifting and cards!) and I discovered a new side to the man. Diwali card parties are huge in Delhi and this is when P’s inherent Delhiite comes out. I’ve to endure the entire season listening to perplexing terms like ‘teen patti,’ ‘blind ki chal’ ‘flash’ etc.
The last four and half years I’ve been in Delhi, I’ve been home for Diwali only once. In Delhi, it means an elaborate dinner at P's parents' place. This is preceded by an equally elaborate ‘puja’ earlier in the evening, performed in utter seriousness by my father-in-law, watched indulgently by my mother-in-law and bhaiya and bhabi. I’m the fumbling participant (which finger do I use? Ghee or chandan? Yikes! Wrong stuff!). P, our niece and my brother who lives in Delhi, pretend to look serious and wait impatiently to start with the food and the crackers, which nowadays mean nothing loud or polluting. The niece is very eco-friendly and stares with disgust at her uncle when he suggests noisy stuff. I wait for the noise, the visitors and the rituals to fade out, go out on the balcony and relish the sudden silence, the flickering diyas in the adjacent balconies, the end of a festival and the beginning of a new year, which I don't quite follow. I call home, speak to mom and dad and hope that next year either I make it home or they make it here.

How To Be A Corporat's Wife

Be pretty. Preferably with straight hair, a smile that turns warm/icy depending on person it’s being bestowed on. Fondness for diamonds, platinum and other glittery expensive things a must.
Absolute no no: Fabindia clothes. That’s for the time when the husband chucks top job to open NGO and you become the able partner.

Have the ability to speak knowledgeably on your man’s profession even if you do not know finance from furniture (though in your house the two are closely related). This is easily achieved by saying things like ‘Paresh was really happy to work with you guys when he was handling the Payments team.’

Throw parties for your husband’s ‘select’ office crowd. Ensure home is stuffed with very expensive (and breakable) things kept in visible locations that scream how wonderfully successful, well travelled and highly paid your man is. Don’t forget to point at the tiffany lamp and add how super caring he is as well. (Paresh never forgets to get me little somethings you know, no matter however busy he is…)

Drop your career the moment you land your corporat or if he isn’t that high up on the career ladder yet, the moment the baby comes. This will give you the chance to stare wistfully at the silk venetian blinds and sigh martyr style— “I used to be in banking but gave it up when Sara came along. You know, her dad travels so much that someone had to be home…” Since you are the CEO’s wife nobody will ask you what kind of ‘banking’ you did and the careerwoman-turned-homemaker act would be suitably applauded.

Mention what an involved mom you are. This one’s easy. Just mention how many classes (tennis, piano, dramatics, riding) you pick her up from at different hours of the week. Also mention how you and busybee hubby spent the last vacation bonding with Sara in Disneyland. Spread cute pictures of the same in silver photoframes around the room for desired effect.

Have the enviable ability to instruct the servant, show the husband’s boss around your garden, manage sari with voluminous pallu and and air kiss newly arrived person all at the same time.

Be involved with a cause. This would not only add to your good karma but also give you the chance to hold forth on topics like street children, domestic violence, sexual harassment, etc. Instantly puts you high up on the admiration scale. Just never mention that the part where you really work is organising fundraisers where all you have to do is get the kids to make some cards, organise a party for you friends and get everyone else to pay for your pet ‘cause’.